


It Isn't Fair

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [19]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, JT is a Good Friend, Survivor Guilt, accidental injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27101299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Prompt No 19. BROKEN HEARTSGrief | Mourning Loved One |Survivor’s GuiltSo he doesn't understand why, weeks later, he can‘t quite seem to function. Every day gets harder and harder to drag himself out of bed, and every day the weight that seems to be pressing down on his chest, making it impossible to suck in a deep breath, gets heavier and heavier.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947595
Comments: 20
Kudos: 54
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	It Isn't Fair

It takes far too long for Malcolm to realize it's not so much the fact that Martin tried to kill him that's bothering him, but the fact that he _didn't_. As much as he wants to believe that Martin loved him, he really does understand, intellectually, that Martin is incapable of love and Malcolm himself was never going to be the exception to that rule. So, although it was shocking and hurtful to find out that his father took him on that camping trip to murder him, it wasn't a revelation that was going to upend his life.

So he doesn't understand why, weeks later, he can‘t quite seem to function. Every day gets harder and harder to drag himself out of bed, and every day the weight that seems to be pressing down on his chest, making it impossible to suck in a deep breath, gets heavier and heavier.

He stops eating one day. It's not a conscious decision, he just...stops. There's an undercurrent of nausea that seems to stay with him twenty four hours a day, but more than that, he just has no interest in food. No interest in cooking or ordering or eating. So he doesn't. 

He doesn't even notice a difference. 

He stops answering calls shortly after that, and after dozens of messages — from Jessica, from Martin, from Gil, even from JT — he powers off his phone altogether so he doesn't have to hear it buzz across the countertop. Talking to people requires more energy that he can wrangle up at the moment.

Eventually, he ends up just staying in bed. Not sleeping, no, sleep abandoned him days ago and he has the splitting headache that comes along with severe insomnia, but the best he can ever seem to manage is maybe fifteen minutes before his mind begins to torture him.

When he's awake, it's all he thinks about; John admitting that they'd brought him to the cabin to get rid of him, the memories that have been slowly filtering back about that camping trip, the faces of the twenty three confirmed victims of The Surgeon (though Malcolm would be willing to wager that number is far, far higher and his heart breaks for the families who still have no closure), and that's bad enough. 

When he's asleep, it all spirals out of control, morphing into some inescapable hellscape where Malcolm stands by and watches as Martin massacres his victims and then turns to Malcolm, dripping in blood, his apron coated in viscera, smiling an inhuman smile that nearly eats up his face as he says, "They're all for you, my boy."

The nightmares send him stumbling to the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet as his stomach twists and tries to climb out of his throat.

Malcolm's been throwing up stomach acid for days.

It's a vicious cycle that he repeats over and over until one drizzly morning, after he's just finished rinsing his mouth with mouthwash to rid himself of the bitter tang of bile, that his front buzzer sounds.

For days, the only sound in his apartment has been the traffic below, the patter of rain on his window, and the echoes of his screams as he wakes from his dreams (or is pulled from his hallucinations), so the harsh, grating vibration of the buzzer startles him so badly that he drops the glass he'd been holding. It shatters to a thousand pieces on the bathroom floor as his hand tremors uncontrollably and he tries to get his breathing under control.

When the buzzer sounds a second time, he forces himself to move, stepping over the worst of the glass — though he ends up with a jagged piece lodged in the bridge of his foot anyways — and hobbling to the front door.

"Hello?" he asks, confused as to who would be downstairs.

"Hey bro, buzz me up," JT's deep voice resonates through the tinny speaker.

Malcolm's so surprised by JT's presence outside the loft that he kind of freezes for a minute until JT's voice cuts through a second time.

"Bright? I'm getting kinda wet out here, man." 

Malcolm buzzes him in but then just stands there, unsure of what exactly he's supposed to do. It's been over a week since he's spoken to anyone, nearly three since the whole incident with Dr. Coppenrath and the admission that he wasn't okay. He's not sure he's ready to face the team now that they know all of his dirty little secrets.

"Hey, man," JT says hesitantly, startling Malcolm with his sudden presence in his loft. He realizes he must've zoned out a little for JT to make it up the stairs already.

"Hey," Malcolm says simply, voice harsh with disuse.

"You doin' okay?" JT asks as his eyes sweep over Malcolm's disheveled form and through his loft. "Been trying to get a hold of you but you haven't answered."

"Yeah," Malcolm says. His brain tells his mouth to smile, to reassure, but the message gets lost somewhere along the way.

JT pauses a beat, waiting for him to continue, and when he doesn't, quietly says, "You don't look okay. Look, I know we're not—"

"I should be dead," Malcolm blurts out and then slaps a hand over his mouth. He definitely didn't mean to say that out loud.

JT looks horrified for a fraction of a second, then confused for a moment longer, but then a dawning realization spreads over his features and softens the harsh set of his face.

"It's called Survivor’s Guilt, bro, and it's shitty and horrible but it's totally normal." JT says, leading Malcolm the few steps to the stairs to his office, frowning at Malcolm's slight limp and encouraging him to sit. "You're feeling guilty because you survived when twenty three people didn't, is that it?"

Malcolm nods absently as JT crouches down and picks up the foot that Malcolm is only just noticing has left a small trail of blood from the bathroom.

"Stay put a minute, okay?" JT says and waits patiently for Malcolm's nod before he pushes to his feet and heads to the bathroom, coming out with a first aid kit and some towels. "You cool if I take this glass out?"

Malcolm nods and JT crouches down once again, pulling Malcolm's foot up onto his knee and getting to work. "Look, What your pops did? That's on him, not you. And I get it, I do. It sucks that all those people died and I'm guessing you're wondering why you got to live when they didn't?"

The shard of glass slips from his foot easily enough and Malcolm hisses at the sting left behind, but he's focusing on JT's words and realizing that's exactly what he's been feeling. Guilt, because he survived when so many people weren't so lucky.

JT uses a disinfectant wipe to cleanse the cut and then wraps the foot in a healthy layer of gauze. His touch is surprisingly gentle and Malcolm actually relaxes just a little as he works, tension draining from his body in nearly indescribable increments.

"I know it sounds kinda flighty, but you need to accept and allow the feelings that you're having," JT says with a tone that says he's heard it, he didn't believe it, but it worked.

Malcolm lets his eyes wander over JT's face, taking in his microexpressions and body language and coming to the conclusion that JT has an intimate acquaintance with Survivor’s Guilt. Usually JT gets a little squirrely when Malcolm attempts to profile him, but right now, he's staying still, keeping his expression open, letting Malcolm read him in a way he never has before.

"Yeah. I've been there," JT confirms what Malcolm already knows as he cuts a peice of tape off to secure the gauze wrap. He gently places Malcolm's foot back on the ground and then sits down beside him on the step, leaning forward with his elbows perched on his knees and his hands clasped together. "It helps to talk. And to feel what you're feeling."

Malcolm's not really sure what he's supposed to say. He lived. They didn't. There's nothing more to it than that.

JT doesn't push, just sits with him until it's clear that Malcolm isn't ready to talk yet. Then he pats him on the back and picks up the first aid kit to return to the bathroom. Malcolm is distantly aware of JT cleaning the glass from the bathroom, then smells the lemony scent of disinfectant as JT cleans the blood from the floor. 

Malcolm isn't sure how long JT is gone for, but eventually he finishes cleaning the mess that Malcolm left behind. He expects JT to leave once he's done (he can't really even take the time to process the fact that JT is here at all, that he took the time to clean the blood and glass), but instead, JT sits back down beside him on the steps, leaning back with his elbows one step up, relaxing like he doesn't have anywhere in the world that he needs to be, like there's nowhere more comfortable he could be sitting than the wooden steps in Malcolm's loft.

They sit in silence for...Malcolm doesn’t know how long, but the storm outside passes and the sun breaks through his windows and travels halfway across the floor before Malcolm takes a breath and says, "It isn't fair."

"I know, man," JT says, clapping a warm hand on his shoulder. "I know."

And maybe JT is right, because _feeling_ it, saying it out loud to someone who clearly understands, helps to ease that weight, just a little.

So he takes another breath and forces the words out, halted and disjointed at first, but slowly gaining cohesion. And by the time JT is helping him to his bed — when he's wrung out and exhausted, when he's run out of words altogether — Malcolm lays back and breathes a little easier, holding tight to the tiny glimmer of hope that blooms in his chest.


End file.
